


A Sunny Day in London

by detectivesdemonsanddoctors



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Dates, Fluff, M/M, rated t for insinuations at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivesdemonsanddoctors/pseuds/detectivesdemonsanddoctors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's sunny in London for once, and the air conditioning broke in Mycroft's office. Greg comes by at the request of Sherlock. He's supposed to ask Mycroft about a goldfish. What's a goldfish got to do with anything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sunny Day in London

**Author's Note:**

> Characters do not belong to me. All the love goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Greg just stared at Mycroft. The ginger man was dressed in a way that Greg had never seen before; suit jacket off, tie loosened, and sleeves rolled up. He was leaning against the wall and staring out the window, admiring the nice weather that decided to grace London after weeks, no months, of rain and fog.

Greg cleared his throat, and Mycroft turned without surprise, Greg figuring that he had known he was standing there all along. Ice blue eyes slid to lock with deep brown ones, and Greg’s heart skipped a beat. Mycroft smiled a polite yet cold smile and walked to sit down at his desk. He motioned for Greg to sit as well, and Greg hesitantly sat, leg bouncing nervously and making Mycroft cock and eyebrow in annoyance.

“What is it you need from me, Mr. Lestrade?” Mycroft asked, voice calm and measured. He adjusted his tie and smoothed his shirt, although still leaving his shirtsleeves rolled up.

“Um,” Greg faltered. “Sherlock sent me over here.” Mycroft smirked, so Greg said quickly, “I don’t usually go wherever your brother tells me to, but he said it was urgent and wouldn’t leave my office until he was sure I would go.”

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his long fingers. “What did he say was so urgent?” he muttered. He had a raging headache, and Sherlock’s constant interruptions to his governmental work was not helping the panging in his temples.

“Um,” Greg said again. “He said something about a goldfish. Said it was code and that if I told you, you would understand.” Greg shrugged halfheartedly, and hoped he wasn’t making too much of a fool of himself in front of the other man.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched to a frown before quickly snapping back into his neutral expression. “I’m sorry to say, Detective Inspector Lestrade, but my brother sent you on an absolutely pointless mission. I apologize for his wasting your time.” With that, Mycroft stood up, ushering Greg from his seat and toward the door.

“M- Mycroft,” Greg said.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, stopping midway between opening his office door.

“Oh,” Greg faltered. “I was just wondering what that goldfish thing meant?” He fiddled with his watch, glancing up at Mycroft but quickly adverting his eyes when he made contact with Mycroft’s icy stare.

“I assure you, Gregory, that is none of your concern.” With that, Mycroft opened the door and ushered Greg out politely but sternly.

The door was about to close when Greg turned around quickly and put his hand out, blocking it from separating him from the other man. “Mycroft, wait,” he said, getting a surge of confidence, but quickly losing it when the door opened and he was met with those piercing blue eyes once again.

“What is it, Mr. Lestrade?” Mycroft sighed.

“Mycroft, I- Do you want to have a drink with me? There’s a pub just down the road.” Greg carded his fingers through his silver hair nervously, and stared at the floor between his old, beat-up shoes and Mycroft’s perfectly shined Italian ones.

“What makes you think that I’d have a drink with you?” Mycroft asked, voice polite to mask the insult that Greg felt stab at his heart a little.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Greg said quietly, eyes still glued to the ground. “You just look like you need a drink, that’s all.”

Mycroft sighed again. Perhaps he _did_ need a drink. His migraine was wreaking havoc in his head and he was nearly sweating through his suit, thus the rolled up sleeves and lack of suit jacket. The migraine was due to his ever-so-stressful job (with the addition of Sherlock being and incessant prick), and the sweating was due to the sun shining through his window and the perfect timing of the air conditioning breaking on the first sunny day London had seen in forever. The drawbacks of his “cover” office, not his real office but the one where he would meet people who weren’t of high jurisdiction, was that it was not nearly as well maintained as it should be. This was the second time the air conditioning had broken in the past year, but at least the other time it broke it was too cold to need it in the first place, and Mycroft had sat happily as the heater blasted warm air into the room.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. Just forget I asked,” Greg said quietly when Mycroft didn’t respond. He turned to leave, sinking his hands deep in the pockets of his coat in disappointment.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said softly.

Greg whipped his head around, eyes full of hope and for once seeing a softer expression on the other man.

“I suppose a drink wouldn’t hurt,” Mycroft said, smiling slightly. It was the closest to a full-on smile Greg had ever seen grace his lips, and his heart fluttered.

Mycroft grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and, after rolling down his sleeves neatly, put it on despite the warm day. He still needed to keep up appearances, and he couldn’t be seen outside his office with his shirtsleeves rolled up and no suit jacket on. Greg watched in amusement as the other man shrugged on the warm garment despite the sweat he could see dotting his forehead.

After grabbing his umbrella, Mycroft shot a quick, polite smile at Greg before locking his office door and leading the way out of his building.

By the time they arrived at the pub, Greg had already shed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He glanced at Mycroft, whose expression was perfectly void of discomfort despite the sheen of sweat that Greg could see on his forehead.

“Mate, you gotta relax. No one’s gonna kill you if you take off that goddamn jacket, you know.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow as Greg called him mate, but Greg just ignored it and looked pointedly at Mycroft’s sweaty face.

Mycroft stared into Greg’s deep brown eyes and decided that maybe he had a point, and soon enough his suit jacket was off again, his sleeves rolled up, and his tie loosened. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a pocket handkerchief and glared at Greg when he saw the other man’s mouth twitch into a smile- no, more like a smirk.

“What are you on about now?” Mycroft asked, wanting Greg to wipe that smug look of his face.

“Oh nothing,” Greg said, trying to put a more serious look on his face but obviously failing. “I just can’t believe that it was _me_ , of all people, who convinced The Great Mycroft Holmes to loosen up, even if it’s just for a pint at the pub.

Mycroft just shook his head. They arrived at the pub a few moments later and Greg went inside immediately, quickly taking a table instead of his normal spot at the bar. Mycroft stood outside a little longer, desperate for a smoke, and after he was done he quickly went inside to rejoin Greg.

Greg had taken the liberty of ordering for the both of them, and two plates sat between them, along with a pint of beer for each. Mycroft eyed the giant burger and pile of chips; he hadn’t eaten pub food in ages and was used to more sophisticated, less greasy meals. But Greg had already dug in, and Mycroft was anything but rude, so he took a dainty bite of the burger and chewed slowly. It definitely wasn’t the best he’d had, but it was appetizing enough if he ignored the grease. He took a sip of beer and nearly blanched at the taste; he was used to expensive wines and hard liquors, and the cheap beer settled heavily on his tongue. Greg seemed to be enjoying himself though, so Mycroft pasted a smile on his face and suffered through the pint.

After the men were done eating and chatting (the chatting being mostly Greg; Mycroft didn’t like to share too much about himself), they walked out into the newfound London sunshine once again.

They had nearly reached Mycroft’s building when Greg stopped and turned to the other man. “Seriously though, Mycroft, what did that goldfish thing mean?” The question had been nagging at his brain all through lunch, but he refrained from repeating the question until he got the courage up just now.

Mycroft sighed, shifting his suit jacket from one arm to the other. “My brother has got it into his head that I’m lonely. He says I should find myself a goldfish.” He smiled ruefully and shrugged.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Greg asked. He saw Mycroft’s eyes go uncertain for a bit, not sure if he wanted to tell Greg the truth or not.

He decided on the truth. “Sherlock prides himself on his skills of deduction. He has himself convinced that you fancy me.”

Greg’s mouth dropped open in shock. “M- Mycroft, I mean I like you, but fancy you? No way! I mean, no offense, but I don’t fancy blokes!” Greg’s heart twinged at the lies. The truth was he had fancied a few blokes here and there in his life, and he most definitely fancied Mycroft Holmes.

“Gregory, I’m just as skilled at deduction as my brother, even more so. I know you fancy men, and I know you fancy me.” His piercing blue gaze locked with Greg and Greg wished a car would just run him down so he wouldn’t have to face Mycroft, who knew he fancied him, and probably knew it from the very first day Greg laid eyes on him.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Gregory, you have nothing to worry about. I knew you fancied me, yet I let you take me out to lunch all the same. What does that say about me?”

Greg stared at his feet while picking at his nails nervously. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “What?"

“Well, I think that perhaps Sherlock was right about me.” Greg peeked up at Mycroft in curiosity, so he continued. “I _am_ lonely, Lestrade, and I found that I was actually enjoying my lunch with you, despite the ghastly food. It was the first time I enjoyed lunch in a very, very long time.”

Greg blushed at that, and he gathered the courage to look Mycroft in the eyes again. He found that Mycroft’s expression was now gentle and soft, which made Greg blush all the more.

“Gregory, I think it may be time for me to tell you the absolute truth. After all, I know how you feel about me, so it is only fair that you know how I feel about you.” He made sure Greg’s eyes were still on him before continuing. “Gregory, I find no use in beating around the bush. The truth is I fancy you, and have fancied you for about the same time you have fancied me.”

Greg’s jaw went slack again, and he gaped at Mycroft with shock. He soon realized what a ridiculous expression he was making and shut his mouth, opting for a small smile and a blush that coloured his cheeks, ears, and neck.

Mycroft smiled softly as Greg blushed, and led the way back into his office. Once inside, he closed the door and locked eyes with Greg.

“Gregory dear, it is extremely hot in here, and the air conditioning is broken. Would you mind terribly if I take off a few extra layers of clothes? Purely for comfort, I assure you.” He grinned wickedly at Greg.

Greg gulped. “God yes,” he whispered. When Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him, he quickly corrected himself. “I mean, by all means go ahead,” he said hesitantly. “As long as you don’t mind me doing so as well.”

Mycroft inclined his head, and both stripped faster than seemed humanly possible. The heat from that sunny London day was soon forgotten, and across town Sherlock smirked, knowing that Greg had not come back to Scotland Yard that day for a very, very good reason; Mycroft had found his goldfish.


End file.
